A Lie by Omission
by Marie-Constance Quesnet
Summary: Once, when Fakir thought about how miserable Ahiru must be as a duck, he planned to smother her with a pillow out of kindness. Instead, when he recovered from dry-heaving in the bathroom, he wrote her a Story.
1. Akt I

**A/N: **Inspired by ohghostwhat's rant on tumblr pointing out the lack of Fakiru!darkfic ( .com (slash) post (slash) 35051843444 (slash) i-think-the-reason-happy-endings-leave-me-feeling).

This is my first fanfiction, so please hit me like a linebacker.

**Princess Tutu © Ikuko Itoh **

* * *

There once was a story after the Story, about a boy who loved a girl. His name was Fakir, and he loved Ahiru. Every bit of her.

But he decided that he wasn't good enough for Princess Tutu. He had the upmost respect for her, as a former enemy and an ally with an indomitable spirit. She was just far too elegant for a blacksmith's boy and a failed knight. Plus, he figured that she belonged to the Story. She was a princess made to catch the eye of Mytho, not Fakir.

And he was so tired of the duck form, even though he knew it was her true self. "Frustrating" was too tame a word to describe their attempts to communicate. Thinking about what could have been made him cry himself to sleep at night-quietly, so as to not wake her while she nuzzled against him.

Once, when Fakir thought about how miserable she must be, he planned to smother her with a pillow out of kindness. Instead, he locked himself in the bathroom for hours, sobbing until he threw up again and again. Fakir wanted to consider himself a man of honor. He would provide for her as promised—until she died in a few years. He'd also promised to follow shortly afterwards, if he lived that long.

So he really did love all of her, he told himself.

But oh, how he _wanted_ the girl. He wanted that chattering monkey and her unfailing optimism. He wanted the redheaded firecracker that dragged him through an underground cave and faced down ravens without fear. He wanted that clumsy, oblivious little moron.

His moron.

Fakir missed being unsettled, one of Ahiru's rare talents. Never did he think a ninety-pound girl would be able to tackle him to the floor. And she used to touch him in other ways, too, he often remembered. She would trip into him, or place a hand on his elbow, or squeeze his shoulder. At the time, he thought her behavior cloying. Now…

_Well, now it would probably still be cloying,_ he thought, smiling to himself as he smoothed out his parchment_. But now, less so. Probably._

A thought unbidden curled in the back of his mind, as wispy and choking as cigar smoke. _God, I'd like to touch her back._

Distracted, Fakir scratched at the puckered, oozing wound on his left hand. Charon had threatened to cut it off at the wrist if his damn fool son didn't stop reopening scabs and pustules, but Fakir didn't care. He'd already lost the use of his hand, anyway. Curled into a bent husk of its former self, his fingers were too stiff to grasp things—including his quill.

He'd learned to work with the disability by sticking his pen through the hole made by his fingers and using his left hand to balance his right. The wound itself had turned black at the edges, likely from ink, despite Charon's attempts at cauterization with a hot poker.

Stiffness, scabs that bled white and wouldn't heal, ink-poisoning … Fakir knew he was a dead man walking. But he'd be damned if he didn't finish writing Ahiru first.

_I owe her that much, at least, _he thought, dipping his quill tip into the ink bottle. _If I'm going to give my life for her, I'd better make sure she has a life to live._

So in large, shaky script, he wrote. And wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and then wrote some more. He didn't know how long he had, so he begged Autor to tutor him in the craft of writing. He slept at his desk and ignored food, despite Charon's pleadings. Every hopeless, infuriating moment of Fakir's life was devoted to Ahiru, his magnum opus.

And then, on a crisp, clear morning, a breakthrough:

_There once was a girl who was once a duck, but no longer. A girl who belonged to a boy who loved her—and likewise did he belong to her. _

_A girl with the heart of a warrior, but as gentle as a lamb; a girl who the boy could protect and provide for._

_And they lived together, for the most part happily._

"This story can't possibly have any power," Fakir said, eying the ink spatters with distaste. "It's too simple."

Panicked quacking from the bedroom told him otherwise. His heart leapt in his chest as he ran to the room. This was good. This was expected.

He needed the hope.

To his surprise, the story worked: Ahiru was indeed changing. But Fakir was no Drosselmeyer. Her transformation was not glitter and light, full of magic.

Fakir stood paralyzed as he watched feathers tear from her in chunks. Bones shifted and cracked as her wings broke, forming fingers. Her face stretched and her eyeballs popped and muscles quivered under skin far too thin. Fakir, horrified, tasted bile on his tongue.

By the end of it, the girl—not a duck, not a princess, but just a girl—was lying on her side on the floor, curled in on herself. Like any newborn, she was naked, covered in blood, and _screaming_.


	2. Akt II

"Oh, shit!" Fakir yelled. "Ahiru!" He had no time to be flustered by her nudity after her traumatic rebirth as a human. Ripping a blanket off of his bed, he covered the hysterical girl and then gripped her by the shoulders. She flailed weakly against him as he scooped her up and pressed her to his chest.

The only thing he could think of was to take her to his bath, where he could clean her off and perhaps calm her down. Some of her skin sloughed off in the shower, even though he tried to be gentle. She was thin-_too thin_, he thought-as if her bones were brittle and her muscles weren't fully developed. His relief was palatable when she stopped screaming, but that she still openly wept made his good hand clench shut.

Quite frankly, this was not what he expected. He'd wanted to kiss her full on the mouth, but given the way her lips were chapped and peeling, that wasn't going to be a possibility for a while.

"Ahiru?" he asked softly, using his fingers to comb the blood out of her hair. "Ahiru, it's me, Fakir.

"Fakir?" she said, raising her head slowly. He saw the way her pupils widened before contracted, and then widen again. She leaned forward and looked away, as if the dim light of the room was too painful to look at.

_Can't she focus_? Fakir thought, feeling his heart pound in his chest. _Did she hit her head when she transformed_?

"Hey, moron," he tried again, bringing her chin up. If she'd been injured more than the obvious, he'd never forgive himself. "Look at me."

She threw up.

Fakir laughed-high and loud. _Heart of a warrior, all right. Defiant to the end_. He stripped of his shirt, only now realizing that it had gathered filth long before this incident. Using a fresh washcloth, he bathed the shivering girl and whispered to her.

"You're safe, Ahiru," Fakir said, trying to be as soothing as possible. He climbed into the tub, soaking his pants, to reach her back. "You're safe. No one will ever hurt you again."

"Okay," she said, clutching her hands against her collarbone.

Abandoning the cloth, Fakir scooted forward to better reach her. He looped his arms around her shoulders and nuzzled his nose into her hair, resisting the urge to crush her up against his chest. "Idiot," he whispered. "You'll never have to worry when you're with me."

"Okay," Ahiru said again. She dropped her chin to her chest, and Fakir pressed his lips to her neck.

It took Ahiru nearly three weeks to recover physically from her change into a girl. Explaining her sudden appearance to Charon was somewhat difficult, especially considering that he'd forgotten all about Tutu when the original Story ended. He was even more disconcerted when he realized that Fakir planned to keep her.

Throughout the days, Ahiru gained strength-slowly. She was still disoriented, and had yet to show any signs of her usual, happy self. Fakir nearly cried when he realized her legs were too weak to dance, damage which might be permanent. So he decided to make her as comfortable as possible until she healed, no matter when that might be.

He spoon-fed her soups that he'd cooked himself, waiting for the day her skin would finish knitting itself back together. He read her book after book of fairy tales. He brought home plants, so many that his room started to look like a greenhouse. He took her to the theatre as often as his budget allowed-which wasn't often-but she seemed to love the plays and ballet performances.

He avoided the lake.

And life went well, for the most part, until Fakir woke up to the smell of a fire. While pulling on his pants one-handed, he tripped on his way to the kitchen. "Ahiru!" he yelled, pushing her out of the smoke. "Get away from the stove!"

"But, Fakir-"

"You idiot," he said. "What did you think you were doing?" He doused the pan-burnt sausage and all-in the barrel of water used for washing.

"I wanted to cook breakfast," she said, twiddling her thumbs. Fakir's heart leapt in his chest. Her coordination had suffered so much-that she could do such a simple action like moving her fingers in a pattern made him inordinately happy.

"Just let me handle the cooking, all right?" he said, smiling as he ruffled her hair. "I don't want you to get burned."

"Okay," she said, and her shoulders sagged.

"Listen, moron. All you have to do is what I tell you," Fakir said, smiling softly. Carefully, he lifted her turtle-neck and inspected her flesh for bruises. A simple action like shaking her hand produced a map of black and blue; he couldn't fathom what shoving her might have done. Luckily, there was only a handprint-shaped bruise on the left side of her ribcage, and some swelling on her right hip. _She must be getting stronger. Thank God_.

"I may not have been able to protect you as a knight," he continued, relieved at his findings. "But hopefully I can give you some happiness as a man."

_For a little while at least_, he thought, scratching at the festering infection in his right hand. He made a trek to the restroom to relieve himself and pick up bandages.

Ahiru followed. He blinked at her when she didn't look away.

"Um," he said, feeling his cheeks redden brighter than a tomato in summer. "I need to use the bathroom now."

"Oh, right," she said, chewing on her lower lip. "Where should I go?"

"Er," Fakir said, feeling unsettled, but not the _good_ kind, like she used to do for him. "I don't know. Anywhere you want to?" Guilt pricked him, which he thought rather strange. "We're going out today, to visit the library. Is that okay?"

"Whatever you say!" she replied cheerfully, to his delight.

Once he'd relieved himself, he retrieved the bandages and flushed all the pus he could out of the wound on his right hand. Holding one end of the cloth against his wound with his left hand, he placed the other end between his teeth.

"Fakir," Ahiru said, causing him to open his mouth and release the tension in the wrap.

"Yeah, what?" he said, a touch annoyed.

"What are you doing?"

Fakir snorted. "What does it look like? I'm bandaging my hand." He grunted in pain as he pulled the wrap taut again.

"I can help!" she said, standing on her tip-toes.

"Don't worry about it."

"But I belong to you," she said, gently laying her fingers on his wrist. "I want to help you."

"I don't need your help, moron," he said, quickly tucking the end of the bandage under the already wrapped pieces. "I can take care of us both."

"Okay," she said, releasing his wrist. She rubbed her injured hip and worried her bottom lip.

_She's so... subdued,_ Fakir thought. _I've never seen her like this-at least not for so long. Is she sick? _

"You little idiot. Hey," he said softly, placing his lips to her forehead. _Weird_, he thought. _No fever._ _Maybe she's coming down with something else?_ He frowned. "I'm sorry for being so harsh."

Then, his breath caught in his throat. _What if she is sick, and it kills her?_

"Are you feeling all right?" he asked, frantically searching for symptoms: dialated pupils, flushed cheeks, trembling. But there was nothing. She was the healthiest she'd been since he'd written her new Story.

"Yeah," she said. Her lips twitched as she smiled. "I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

To ward off chill, he gave her his coat, and then wrapped his cloak around her. It was one of their daily rituals, but today he made sure to shield her from the wind on their walk to the library.

"Oh. Hello, Fakir," Autor said when they arrived. He was hunched over a massive copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales. The tome had yellowed pages-some of which were torn out. "How are you feeling?"

Fakir didn't miss the way his friend glanced at his right hand. But he didn't come here for pleasantries. "Look, Autor," he said, and brought Ahiru out into the light.

Autor was less than pleased. "Holy shit!" he screamed. "What the fuck did you do?"

Fakir smiled sardonically. "A miracle."

Falling into his seat, Autor cradled his head. "You shouldn't have brought her back. When I taught you the Craft, I didn't realize-"

Fakir slammed his hands onto the desk. "You didn't realize? Of course I was going to bring her back! What else could I have done?"

Autor adjusted his glasses. "Just look at her, Fakir," he said. "Something's clearly wrong."

Fakir wrinkled his nose. "What? How could you say that?"

"Has she tried to manifest as Tutu?" Autor asked.

"Of course not," Fakir snapped. "I wrote that out of her Story."

"Oh, my God," Autor said, and his face drained of color. "What have you done? Where is the Story now?"

"I don't know where it is," Fakir lied, feeling a flush spread across his cheeks, like a sunset.

"Oh, that's just great," Autor snapped, and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "You've lost the only way to fix this. To fix _her_. Now what, Fakir?" he demanded. Standing up quickly, he jabbed a finger into his friend's chest. "What are you going to do with her, exactly? Would you be another Drosselmeyer, making her dance on your puppet strings?"

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," Ahiru said quietly, startling both of them. Her fists were clenched, and the skin around her eyes was tight. She'd moved away from Fakir, and was standing in the shadowy nook between a bookcase and a statue of an angel.

_Wings, _Fakir thought foolishly. _She has wings again._

"Is it true?" she asked, fixing her fierce gaze on Fakir. "Did you play with my fate?"

He found he couldn't look away, as much as he wanted to. "Yes," he croaked. "Yes, it's true. But Ahiru-"

She cut him off with an upraised palm. "So it's by your will alone that I'm here like this," she said evenly. Then, she rubbed at her temples. "I'm still confused. I need some time to think all of this through, okay?" With great effort, she tightened Fakir's cloak around her shoulders. "Don't follow me."

Autor adjusted his glasses.

_If he says even a word,_ Fakir thought viciously,_ I'll kill him._

But he didn't. Autor looked at Fakir mournfully and shook his head, which was almost worse.


	3. Akt III

"Well," Autor said, leaning against the massive desk in the library that he'd claimed as his own, "I hope you're satisfied."

Fakir ground his teeth together. Ahiru had been out and alone for far too long after she'd run away from them. _She could take care of herself before, but now..._ _what if she gets hurt? I should be out there! _He'd been pacing so long, his legs were sore.

"Fakir, are you even listening to me?" Autor said, grabbing him by the shoulder.

"Yeah, what?" Fakir snapped.

Autor frowned. "I want you to fix Ahiru."

"There's nothing to fix," Fakir said, looking away.

"We both know that's not true," Autor said gently.

"If there is something wrong-which there's not-you're responsible for it just as much as I am," Fakir said, crossing his arms. "Without your help, I never would have been able to write Ahiru's Story."

"I couldn't have known-"

"You couldn't have known?" Fakir said, flabbergasted. "Why else would I have you teach me the Craft?"

"To be perfectly frank, Fakir," Autor said, his voice harsh and clipped and building to a crescendo, "I thought you were going to use it to restore the lives of the residents of Goldkrone town!"

"She is a resident of Goldkrone!"

"Then you would write Stories for your own sadistic, selfish purposes? You're not just Drosselmeyer's ancestor," Autor growled, "You're him reborn!"

Despite his occupation and calling as a writer, Fakir had never considered himself good with words. Now he found he didn't have any left, so he punched his friend in the mouth.

"Fuck you, Autor," Fakir snarled.

"You, too, Fakir," Autor said grimly, smiling as he wiped away blood on the back of his hand. "You, too."

Cradling his split knuckles, Fakir took off to find Ahiru. He ran all over Goldkrone looking for her, becoming more and more frantic by the hour. Autor, still bleeding, had tagged along at the start-primarily to curse at his friend's foolishness-but he couldn't keep up with Fakir's adrenaline-fueled panic.

Near midnight, Fakir found her at the lake. _Of course_, he thought, panting. _Of course she'd come here._

He sat down next to her on the damp grass, immensely grateful both to have found her and to have the frigid air to cool his sweaty skin. Ahiru sighed, and lifted her hand from the icy water.

"Why here?" Fakir asked, dreading the answer.

"You never come here," she said, leaning her chin on her knees. "I figured you wouldn't find me."

_That's fair. _Fakir winced. "Well, now I have." He stood, brushing the wet off his pants. "Come on home, idiot," he said, and offered his hand. Sighing, she took it and let him help her up.

Then, she slipped in the mud and fell, screaming.

Fakir caught her around the ribs, and held her tight. He wrapped her up in a desperate embrace. "I'm sorry," he said, and his chest constricted like a drowning man's. "I'm so sorry. You and Autor are right. I never should have-"

She pressed cold fingers to his lips. He noticed for the first time that she was shivering. "But, Fakir, I'm standing before you now. It doesn't matter how I got here. And," she said, and moved her hands to his cheeks, giving him chills, "I belong to you. Right?"

Seizing her fingers, he kissed her palm. "Of course, moron. Now let's get you home," he said, rubbing her arms. "You're soaking wet!"

After a few quiet mornings at Charon's, life was back to normal. To his relief, Ahiru didn't seem to show any signs of illness from the lake. She was healthier than ever and seemed to brighten more and more with exposure to the outside.

Fakir didn't quite know how, but he was grateful. In the back of his mind, the discussion about Ahiru's fate and his role in it still felt like a boil waiting to be lanced, but he stuffed that feeling away.

So things were pleasant.

Soon, they settled into a routine. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. She'd read and water plants, and he'd work. "We're going out this morning," Fakir said around a mouthful of buttered bread.

She blew on her tea. "Where are we going?"

"The music room at the Academy," he said. Autor had eventually declared that Ahiru should get regular fresh air and exercise, but that he also wanted to keep an eye on her. _As if I'm not good enough to care for her! Ass. _Autor's music room was always deserted, so it was the perfect place for the three to stare at each other. "I have to finish some writing work for a deadline, so I'll be in the corner."

"We're seeing Autor again?" Ahiru asked. "Okay. What would you have me do?"

Fakir blinked, and then put his chin on his hand. "Well, there are some books you can read. And you can use those paints I got for you. Do what you want."

He would have suggested that she practice some of the basic ballet steps, but her legs were still too weak. The fact made a tremor cross his heart, as if he'd failed somehow, but he knew that she had to be the one suffering the most.

"Hey, moron," he said, trying to sound as gentle as possible. "I know money's tight right now, but as soon as I get paid for this work, we can pick something out for you at the bakery. Or a nice, new cloak of your own. Sound good?"

She sipped her drink carefully. "Whatever you say, Fakir!'

Once in the music room, Fakir installed himself in the far right corner and surrounded himself with parchments. Autor had presented his friend with a cup of blended Darjeeling and Assam teas in the hopes he'd write another Story, "and maybe fix this bloody mess," but Fakir wasn't having any of it.

After being thoroughly told off, Autor took up the piano. He closed his eyes and furrowed his brow, as if deep in thought. Ahiru, who had been thumbing through a book, abandoned it to scoot her chair closer to the large, shiny instrument.

Soon, she was hovering over the keys. Intently, she studied the way Autor's fingers moved. She reached out a hand, but drew back before touching the ivory bars. Eventually, she grew bold enough to touch the piano, and struck a chord.

Their fingers brushed. Ahiru squeaked.

"Oh," Autor said, blinking at her as if coming out of a trance. He ended the song abruptly. "Did you want to play?"

She nodded, flushing.

Looking up from his work, Fakir frowned. "She can't play, though."

Autor tsked and adjusted his glasses. "She can learn. Besides, the piano might be the perfect activity for her, since she can't use her legs-"

"Autor!" Fakir snapped, standing up so quickly he felt dizzy. "You don't know that! She's still recovering!"

Ahiru slammed her hands on the keys. When the noise died down, she fixed each of them with a look. "I have asked you before not to talk about me like I'm not here."

"I-I'm sorry," Fakir said.

"Sorry," Autor said.

"Fakir needs to work. And you want us wherever you are," Ahiru said. She trailed her fingers over the keys, feather-light, seeming not to care that she caressed Autor's knuckles. "I'm bored of reading and I'm too antsy to paint, so I want to try the piano," she said, a flicker of a smile crossing her lips. "Can you teach me?"

"Ah," Autor said, and then coughed. "I suppose. What do you know about scales?"

Fakir narrowed his eyes at the pair of them while Autor unearthed a piano lesson for beginners. _What the hell was that_? he thought, flopping into his seat. The young writer knew he had work to do, but the lines bled together. He managed to write the wrong order on one page, so he had to start over. His lines were sloppy.

And his gaze kept drifting to the two sitting at the piano.

Ahiru was terrible. Despite her valiant efforts, whatever the piano was producing couldn't be called music. Her face reddened and her braid came undone as she became more and more flustered. Fakir stared at her pink, healthy lips and her exposed neck.

He swallowed.

Then he was distracted by Autor's cheerful laughter. His cheeks were glowing, as if he'd had a few drinks. Fakir wondered if teaching brought out a different side of him. _That sadistic bastard. He's gotten a kick out of jerking me around for nearly a year!_

Fakir grunted, and returned to scribbling on his work _And he certainly wasn't laughing like that when he taught me._

Realizing what that could mean, he dropped his pen, smearing ink on the pages. He nearly twisted his neck to see what they were doing. Autor was hunched over Ahiru, cradling her in his arms. He was guiding her wrists and moving her fingers across the keys. She shivered as he whispered in her ear.

Fakir abandoned his desk. Almost enjoying how natural it was to fall into a stealthy, predatory stance, he crept up behind them. "I think," he said quietly, making Ahiru gasp at his sudden proximity, "that we're done for the day."

Autor blinked. "All right." He adjusted his glasses. Fakir wanted to snap them in half.

"Here you are, Ahiru," Autor continued, handing her the music sheets. "Maybe Fakir can look up what the notes mean for you."

"Are you sure I can take them with me?" she asked softly.

"Sure," Autor said, and chuckled at her. "You're bringing them back tomorrow, right?"

"Let's go, Ahiru," Fakir said. He escorted out of the room by her elbow, leaving his work behind.

On the way back to Charon's, a question simmered at the back of Fakir's mind. He asked as soon as they were off of the academy grounds. "Ahiru?" he said hesitantly, rocking on the balls of his feet. "Are you happy?"

"Yes," she said, finally.

He pretended not to notice how her gaze darted away. "That's good, moron," he said, and his stomach roiled. He swallowed, trying to think of what to say. "Good. I'm happy, too."

Fakir parted her cloak and took a long look at her thin, beautiful legs.

_She'll make a wonderful pianist, _Fakir thought absently. He felt strangely detached, as if he were floating above himself as he walked beside her. He scrubbed at his eyes with his the palm of his good hand, and didn't know why.


	4. Akt IV

Weeks after her first piano lesson with Autor, Ahiru was frustrated with her lack of progress. After observation, Fakir pointed out that she seemed to learn in bursts and then burn out for a while, like a sparkler. But Autor was patient with Ahiru, and constantly reassured her that she was doing well as he guided her fingers across the keys. Fakir, forced into a corner of the room, thought that that prickly bastard was enjoying himself too much.

But he grudgingly admitted that Ahiru was enjoying herself and he was getting his work done, so they went to the music room six days a week. Today was no different.

"Good morning, moron," Fakir said as she entered. He flipped their potato pancakes in his pan and then turned to greet her properly.

Unfortunately, she was wearing one of his shirts again, and nothing else.

"Good morning, Fakir!" she said, as chipper as ever. She stretched her arms above her head, and he had to quickly avert his eyes to seeing at any more of her pale thighs. _She's taunting me!_ Flushing, Fakir bit his lower lip until it bled.

He wondered when Ahiru had grown so brazen. She completely disregarded modesty while at the house, and he often had to tell her when it was time to get dressed. _Is she... is she really that comfortable here? With me?_

Still, he wasn't going to peek at her like a lecher. Fakir turned the pancakes over a few more times to distract himself. "Hey, moron," he said. "Go look out the window. You might like what you see."

"Okay," she said, and bounded over to the window, where she pressed her hands and nose to the glass. Fakir had noticed how last night's snowfall stretched across the earth like ground-up diamonds, and wanted to offer her that sight as a present, of sorts. The snow would all be turned by slush by the afternoon, but this early in the morning it was unspoiled.

"Oh, Fakir," Ahiru said shakily, as if her breath had been stolen from her.

Fakir nearly groaned aloud. _Of course she'd say my name like that. _He'd been having dreams of late, which he'd had while she was a duck, but now that he could hear her, see her, smell her, touch her, taste her-_Oh, God!_-they'd been a bit more intense. He gripped the pan handle tightly to resist rolling his hips right into the stove.

She turned to him, eyes sparkling. "It's so beautiful."

"Do you want to play with it?" he asked, and immediately regretted the phrasing.

"Okay!" she said gleefully, and ran for the door.

"Ahiru, wait!"

She tried to stop as soon as he said her name, but since she was barefoot, she skidded a bit. Only by wind-milling her arms did she manage to keep her balance.

"You can't go out wearing nothing like that!" he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.. "You'll freeze. Honestly, you're such a kid."

She gave a little gasp and clutched her hands to her chest. "I'm sorry," she said, staring at her feet. "Did I disappoint you?"

"What? No," Fakir said, and left the stove to go to her. He wrapped an arm around her head and cradled her face against his chest. "I was just-well, I don't know what I was. But you can't go out there without warm clothes, all right? I'd hate for you to catch cold."

"Okay," she said, muffled.

Then Fakir realized his legs were pressing against her bare ones. "Haa," he said, jerking away. "Let's, uh, get you dressed and have breakfast, shall we? After that, we can play in the snow."

"Okay!" she said cheerfully, and they went to work.

After breakfast, Ahiru was ecstatic. Fakir bundled her up in all the clothes she had, including her cloak and his. He was left shivering, but knew that his minor discomfort was worth preserving Ahiru's health.

"Oh!" she said after she pressed some snow to her lips. "It's really cold!"

"Idiot," Fakir said, and chuckled. "Snow always is."

The two played outside for hours. Despite having a bad hand, Fakir showed her how to pack the snow together and shape a perfect, slushy snowball, which of course spawned a battle. He tried to go easy on her, but after the fourth time she nailed him in the face, he tackled her into a drift.

"Having fun?" Fakir said, grinning at her laughter. His nose was dripping and he could see his breath, but he had made her happy. He pressed a kiss to her cool forehead.

"Yes!" she said, breathlessly, and his heart skipped.

Then, arm in arm, they took a leisurely walk down to her lake. Ahiru squealed in delight when she saw the still, sparkling water.

_A frozen lake, _Fakir thought. _Just like the time we faced Krahe._ He smiled as he watched Ahiru poke the ice with a stick. She'd been less than pleased that her stalwart protector wouldn't let her test the ice with her feet, but relented after he explained why that idea was so incredibly stupid.

"Hey, Ahiru," Fakir said, squeezing her shoulder. He was shivering so much, he could barely keep his grip, and he'd developed a bit of a sore throat. "Ready to go home?"

"Good idea," she said. "My hands hurt, and they're tingly, too."

"Here," he said, a bit alarmed. "Let me warm them up." The trip home was a short one, aided by Fakir's insistence that he give Ahiru a piggy-back ride, which she happily agreed to.

Once home, Fakir, still shivering, put on a kettle for tea as Ahiru peeled off her wet clothes. First, she unwound her scarf. Then she stripped of the two cloaks and her gloves. Last, she removed her hat, and her tangled, unbound hair tumbled around her shoulders, looking very much like a fiery halo. Her cheeks were rosy and her lips, plump from the cold, burned scarlet.

Fakir couldn't stand it.

"Ahiru," he said, no longer feeling the cold. Leisurely, with the grace of a dancer and the prowess of a knight, he backed her up against a wall. "Kiss me," he begged. "Please."

Ahiru hesitated, and Fakir winced. _Shit shit shit! I pushed too much, too soon. I'm such an idiot!_

Then, she leaned into him and murmured against his lips, "Whatever you say, Fakir." Her lips were cold but soft. She was tentative, almost shy, in exploring his offering, and Fakir gave her all the time he could.

Then, he moved. He cupped the back of her neck and drank her in like a man parched. He licked her lips and bit them, willing them to stay plump and red, forever. Using his right hand, he pressed her arm against the wall above her head. On instinct, he shifted his hips, pinning her.

Growing bolder by the second, he parted her shirt and dragged his fingers across her collarbone. She moaned and shivered against him, which he felt deep in his bones. Fakir nipped her ear and dragged his tongue down her neck, lapping her up greedily.

But then she pulled away. "Wait," she said, panting. "Aren't we going to be late for our meeting with Autor?"

Stupefied, Fakir could only blink at her. "What?"

"In the music room?" she said, and wiggled her arm against his grip.

"Oh," Fakir said. He pressed his head against her shoulder. _Moron! I pressured her!_ he thought, horrified at her needing an excuse to get away from him. _That was the last thing I wanted to do! What if she never kisses me again?_ Then he forced himself to look at her. "Right. The music room."

After tea, Fakir fixed her clothes and tried not to touch her skin while she avoided his gaze. By the time they'd crossed the threshold of the music room, Fakir had thought of a thousand ways to hurt himself for dishonoring her. His head was congested, and his throat was on fire. _Great_, Fakir thought. _I may have gotten her sick, too._

He stared at the curtains, trying to keep the pressure behind his eyes from overwhelming him enough to produce tears. _I'm such a bastard. I don't even deserve to kiss her._

"Well!" Autor said. "Hello, Ahiru. Fakir."

Fakir nodded, too tired to make nice. With sore lips and a bruised heart, he retreated to his corner to lick his wounds.

Ahiru smiled gently at her music teacher. "Hello, Autor. Been staying warm?"

Autor adjusted his glasses. "For the most part. How about yourself?"

Still chatting, they crossed to the piano. Fakir buried himself in his work, which was a welcome distraction for once. Nearly done with his last assignment, he stretched his hands, and tried to remember those exercises he'd been instructed to do.

Bored, he looked towards Ahiru, who had markedly improved at playing the piano, despite her impatience with the instrument. Then, Fakir saw. He saw the way her fingers lingered on Autor's wrist. He saw the faint dusting of pink on her cheeks. He saw her smile-the first genuine, dazzling smile she'd given since he'd brought her back to life.

And his chest burned.

_No!_ he thought frantically. _She loves me! _ His hands trembled and his legs weakened as he rose from his desk. _Me!_ _She can't possibly…_ Fakir couldn't watch anymore. Shaking, he made his way home alone.

His first stop was Charon's liquor cabinet. All they had at home was a homebrew which Fakir once described as a giant "fuck you" to the German Beer Purity Law. _Who can get drunk on barley, hops, and water alone?_ Fakir thought, and cackled brokenly. The drink was as thick as molasses and bitter as hell. He guzzled it down, which produced a spate of coughing. Then he took another long pull, and stopped only when he'd drunk half the bottle.

_Anymore and it'll kill me_, he thought, and laughter burbled from between his lips. _Like that would be so bad._

Dizzy, delirious, and more than a little tipsy, he tried to cross the room to his desk. Instead, he stumbled into a chair in the dining room. Fakir's knees hit the floor, and he threw up. "Oh, God," he sobbed, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve. "Why, Ahiru? Why?"

Desperate, he crawled his way to his pens and parchments. "It's not her fault," he said, giggling, and then choked on his own bile. "We all know whose fault it is." Through his tremors and through his tears, Fakir wrote.

_There once was a boy by the name of Autor-but no longer._


	5. Akt V

Wails arose on the streets of Goldkrone town, and Fakir shuddered. The people mourned the death of Autor, one of their own. Ahiru had cried the hardest of all, and Fakir swayed as he supported her. He hadn't slept at all in the days since the accident. Instead, he'd been haunted by images of Autor lunging from his grave, arms outstretched for his killer's neck.

The funeral was a quiet Klasse five, with only two horses and eight volunteer pallbearers. Despite being relieved that the coffin was closed, Fakir felt guilt needle at his heart. He had not known that Autor's parents were poor.

Once at home, Charon hunched over a cup of tea at the table and shook his head. "I'm sorry, son," he said. "I know he was your friend."

"Yes," Fakir said softly, gripping Ahiru's shoulder tightly. "Yes, he was."

"Shame, though," Charon said, cupping his chin in his palm. "He was so young. So much potential."

Fakir looked away, towards Ahiru. He recalled a time when he was willing to run Tutu through with a sword for Mytho's sake. _How ironic, then_, he thought, _that I have now killed to protect her._

Then he looked at his charge. She'd been curled inward since the funeral. Her eyes were red and her lips were dry, and she was still sniffling.

_I'd forgotten that she was so soft-hearted,_ Fakir thought._ I don't know if that's endearing or pathetic._

"I have to get back to work," Charon said, looking at Ahiru. "Are you going to be okay?"

She glanced at Fakir, who nodded. "Yes," she said, and her voice cracked.

"Okay," he said, smiling weakly. He ruffled her hair.

Fakir waited until Charon left before he turned on the girl. "You loved him!" he snarled.

"Yes," she said, and he stumbled back, feeling the same as when Krahe stabbed him through the chest with sharpened crow's feathers.

_No! She's lying! _

"I loved him," she continued, keeping him locked in her gaze. "But my heart belongs to you."

He scoffed, reaching into the drawer where he'd hid his third bottle of homebrewed alcohol. Nothing else would have gotten him through Autor's service. "That doesn't make any sense," Fakir said. Then he uncorked the beer and had a long drink. "You loved him, so how can your heart possibly belong to me?"

"But, Fakir," she said, sounding like a wisp, "How can my heart belong to anyone else? All of me belongs to you!"

"What?" Fakir said, feeling the grip of a Story starting to tighten around them. He was suddenly dizzy and out of breath. Goose-pimples pricked his arms. "What are you saying?"

"I belong to you," she said, looking downcast.

And Fakir remembered what she'd said, the words she always used: I belong to you.

I belong. I belong. I belong. _Never I love you._

"Tell me you love me," Fakir said, aping Rue and feeling sick. He seized her shoulder. "Tell me! Tell me you love me." His head was full of cotton again, and his face felt hot. Nose dripping, he felt his jaw tightened as he tried not to cry.

"I love you," she said flatly.

"No, you don't," he spat, and straightened up. "You haven't, not since we started spending time with Autor. Not even since I-" he stopped, so startled that he dropped his booze. _Not even since I brought you back._

Fakir hurtled through the house, stopping only when he banged his knees against his writing desk. He tore through the drawers, searching for the Story which had returned her to him. Finally, amidst scattered parchment and upended ink bottles, he found it, buried. With a shaking hand, he unfolded his magnum opus, and read.

_There once was a girl who was once a duck, but no longer. A girl who belonged to a boy who loved her—and likewise did he belong to her. _

"No!" he yelled, jerking away from his desk in terror. He clutched his head as he fell into the chair. _'Belong'! Not love! Does that mean she has to do everything I say?_ He glanced back at Ahiru, only to see her shivering. _Oh, my God, _he thought. _If I'd written 'love' instead, would she be forced to love me?_

Swallowing the vomit building in the back of his throat, he lifted his cloak off the back of his chair. Stuffing the Story in his pocket, he crossed to her in order to warm her shoulders.

_A girl with the heart of a warrior, but as gentle as a lamb; a girl who the boy could protect and provide for._

"I'm sorry," he whispered, rubbing her arms. Then he draped the heavy wool around her. "I was just so angry. And Autor…" he said quietly, willing himself not to break. Not willing to think on it, he changed the subject. "You act like you don't remember us at all."

He blinked, and something which had been tickling at the back of his brain shoved itself to the forefront. _She's never mentioned Mytho. Not once. _

"You do remember, Ahiru. Don't you?" he asked desperately, cupping her cheek in his good hand. He wrapped his other arm around her back, and pressed her against his chest. "You haven't really forgotten me?"

She hesitated. His heart cracked.

"Who am I? Tell me who I am," he said, brushing his thumb against her collarbone. His sight blurred with tears. "Please. _Please_, Ahiru. Tell me?"

"Fakir," she said blandly. "You're Fakir."

"Yes," he said, feeling like his patience was caught in a thresher. "But who do you _think_ I am?"

She cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes, examining him. "You're the man who woke me up. If I do everything you tell me, you'll keep me safe, and take care of me."

Fakir's soul shattered like spun glass. This woman-whoever she was-had swallowed him up and spat him out unclean, cold, and broken. He pushed her away.

"Sit there and be quiet," he snapped, trying to massage away a massive headache blooming behind his eyes. "I have to think."

"Okay," she said, and dropped to the floor.

"Shit! Ahiru!" Fakir yelled. "Ahiru!" Desperately, he gripped her by the shoulders and shook her. "Idiot, wake up!" He slapped her cheeks gently, but she had no response.

"Ahiru?" he said, gripping her left arm. With his infected hand, he brushed her bangs away from her face. "Tutu?"

She stared back at him with blank eyes. Mytho's eyes. Fakir knew them all too well to not recognize them. Shivering, he released her. He covered his mouth as he backed away and collapsed to the floor when he hit the wall.

_There once was a girl who once was a duck, but no longer._

_I did this_, Fakir thought. Heated tears pricked his eyes and pressure built up behind them. Choking on his own raspy sobs, Fakir bit down on his broken hand. _I wrote her heart away_.

This mockery of a lover that he'd written into life had started out as a shadow of Ahiru, and for a while, Fakir was content. But then he'd bludgeoned the happiness out of it, and there was nothing resembling the girl-or the duck, or the princess-he once knew.

Just an empty husk wearing her body. Drosselmeyer's doll.

Anger burned through him, clear and bright-like lightning. He vaulted off the floor and wall, and seized the shell of a woman by her forearms.

"Look at this face," he said fiercely, shoving her up against the mirror. His twisted hand pressed into the softness of her belly. "I hate..." he started, and then shuddered. Fakir's voice gentled, and broke. "I _hate_ this face," he said, and released a single, defeated cry.

Ahiru tilted her head to the side. Her jaw was a bit slack, and her eyes were empty.

_Empty_, Fakir thought. _Oh, God, what have I done? What if I can't fix it? _It was too much. Too much. His shoulders sagged. Face hot, his throat tightened. He leaned his forehead into her tiny chest and wrapped his arms around her.

Then, he cried. Sobs wracked his body until he was reduced to coughing fits and dry-heaving. Consumed by grief, his legs gave out. As he fell, his weight brought Ahiru to her knees.

Seeing stars and feeling light-headed, Fakir moved his head down to her lap. "They had their happy ending!" he snarled, his throat hoarse. "Why can't we have ours?"

Ahiru moved, startling him. He felt the fingers of a homunculus—not a duck, not a princess, or even a girl—threading through his feathery hair.

"Fakir," she whispered. "Fakir, you're trembling."

_And they lived happily, for the most part._

**ENDE**

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A/N: Thank you for reading.


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